She colored herself on white construction paper

Light brown captured her skin hue

“How come they say I’m black?”

I searched for a suitable beginning point,

Found none

And just pointed to the remaining white portion of the paper,

“See, they aren’t really white”

 

She drew a bright yellow sun for a background

I felt the heat

Her pencil dangled, swinging as a pendulum 

between art, curiosity and thought

It struck with anguish, carving rich lips and flattened nose

“How come pretty girls on TV don’t look like me?”

I wrested myself from aversion

“Well, they call TV the idiot box”

 

She used black for her pupils 

and left white uncolored paper for her cornea

There was unity of purpose and function staring at me,

Searching my core for understanding of division

I looked away

She caught my reaction

And understood